When Everything Changed
by Pakmai
Summary: The pool, the bomb, and Moriarty's reveal changed everything. John realizes there's more than just friendship between Sherlock and him. Can he convince the unflappable detective to break his isolation and take a leap? Or will he find out the opposite: Sherlock does not return his feelings. Sherlock/John. Cowritten with Petrichor1110.
1. Chapter 1

**Here's a new little story that I've started with my friend, Petrichor1110. We're writing it together, so I hope you all enjoy it! It will be updated once a week just in case our schedules conflict.**

**We're both publishing this, so if you see it under both our names, it's planned that way. :) I hope you enjoy it! Reviews/comments welcome!**

**Also, we own nothing about Sherlock, we're just playing in this sandbox, and hope to leave it better than we found it!**

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><p>Seeing John trussed up in a bomb vest created a crack, a problem in Sherlock's mind. Of course he was able to put on a brave face in front of Moriarty, but once he was gone, an unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest, right before he rushed to get the vest off his friend. That led to a general uncertainty and nervousness. They eventually get back to the apartment and Sherlock locks himself in his room for a little while, enough to talk himself out of seeking out the calming influence of drugs. When he comes back out, he's in just his shirt and pants with a robe over it, a few fresh nicotine patches on his arms. He goes immediately to his laptop, needing to settle his mind with a problem, a puzzle, some kind of research. Barely taking in where John is in the room, Sherlock only glances over at him a few times to make sure that he's there and that he's okay. Finding out that he cares for someone is unusual as well, and it's all got his Mind Palace all twisted.<p>

Unfortunately it's not but a few minutes before he gets frustrated and shoves his laptop away, sitting back and steepling his fingers, elbows resting on top of the desk as he stares off into the distance, thinking and trying to fix what he sees as wrong with himself.

John fiddled with the remote, the television on mute, just switching from channel to channel. He seemed to be tied to Sherlock's movements, his sighs, his sly peeks. The nights events had them both high strung and out of sorts, both on the edge. Finally he settled between the news and what looked to be a wildlife documentary. He watched the news headlines flash by before going back to the exotic desert which only reminded him of the army. He sighed, knowing that eventually they would have to talk about what happened, but also knowing that now wasn't the time.

His mind seemed preoccupied with the thought of waking up to that vest strapped around his body, realizing he was trapped, the terror flooding his body as he realized there was no escape. When he was in the army, he nearly died more times than he could count and it was all he could do to beg God to let him live. This was different, this time the only thing he thought of was Sherlock. He wasn't even a side note. It was Sherlock's face, everywhere, and this time he was pleading, not for himself but for this man who he had only known a short time, but trusted with every fiber of his being.

Not finding any help from the wallpaper that he's been staring at, Sherlock gets up, stripping off his robe because while it may be a little dramatic, it's just getting in his way. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, the top button of his shirt undone which is normal of course. He feels the need to fill the silence but he has nothing to say, even opening his mouth once and shutting it, striding over to the window. One hand rubs over the patch on his arm, before it works its way up to his elbow where he rubs the crook for a few moments, staring out onto the street through the window which was at least repaired that day. He even flips through the pages of whatever violin piece he was last working on, before he crosses the room to the kitchen, starting to search through the cabinets for something which he of course doesn't feel the need to voice.

Deafening silence still fills the air as Sherlock searches, the clinking of glasses the only indication that he found something that he wanted. He pauses, going completely still for a moment before he pulls a bottle out of a cabinet, the scrape of metal across glass being heard before the clink of ice and the pouring of liquid, but still Sherlock remains silent. Which is not surprising, and he did warn John about that when they first met.

John could just see Sherlock out of his peripheral vision, moving around the kitchen gracefully (as he always did). He knew what he was doing, he knew Sherlock was looking for a distraction, and really he didn't mind, anything to keep him away from the drugs again. He only hoped that what ever he was doing, it didn't have anything to do with the toes in the freezer.

He smiled thinking about their first day and the eyeballs in the microwave, before shaking it off. He hated that kind of thing, so why was he smiling? John looked over as he felt Sherlock move behind him. He was an eerie presence, just lurking over his shoulder.

"Look, Sher..." He started before something hard and cold was shoved into his hand. "Is this alcohol?" John asked as he carefully eyed the liquid, sniffing it to see if he could identify what it was.

"As always, your powers of deduction astonish me, John." Sherlock says in his deadpan sarcasm, waiting until he takes it before he himself takes a drink of it. "It's Scotch. I don't usually drink, it clouds my mind. However, I believe you would disapprove of my other solution tonight." he says simply and casually, taking a rather large drink out of his glass for a moment, before he walks back over to the window. It's not something they've ever really discussed, Sherlock's past drug abuse, not something he's ever gone into detail with, but there is the knowledge - from that first case - that at some point Sherlock did do drugs. And knowing the detective, it was not some minor drug.

"You are not a man unused to alcohol, John. People tend to give others a drink to help calm their nerves after a traumatic event." The younger man says in his clinical, detached manner as he stares out at the street for another moment, drinking out of his tumbler before he puts it aside and reaches out to pick up his violin, plucking a few of the strings and tuning it almost absently.

John laughed under his breath, leaning forward to his elbows rested on his knees. He ran his free hand through his hair. "God. I could definitely use one right about now. "

John sipped at his scotch, before just deciding to down it, letting it burn inside his chest. he looked at his empty glass, swishing around the remaining unmelted ice cubes. "Sherlock, can we talk about what happened? " He asked, feeling a memory creep back in. He wanted to know how Sherlock was feeling, what he was feeling...if he was feeling the same thing that he was. He had no idea what this was, but yet he wanted to know if it was just him.

"Sherlock?"

Slowly and gently putting his violin aside, Sherlock downs the rest of the liquid in his glass before he walks to the kitchen and retrieves the bottle, filling John's glass and his own. "You were kidnapped and strapped to a bomb, John." He says bluntly as he looks at his friend. "And used against me. It seems that my brother was right, alone protects you." He says though he's not exactly sure what else the doctor is looking for, taking a smaller sip out of his glass this time but leaving John with the bottle before he goes to stand by the fireplace. In a little bit of OCD, he adjusts some of the things sitting on top, before he rests his tumbler on it.

"What else do you wish to talk about? Should we recount the entire evening in detail?" The detective asks, using his normal defenses to keep the emotions at bay, mainly his prickly attitude.

John's eyebrows pressed together, letting him think. "I, I just..." he said, tripping over his words. He took a deep breath and started again. "Your brother, while brilliant is an idiot. Alone does not protect you, it isolates you. It makes you cold, but I suppose that the way you want it, isn't it?

Sherlock looked puzzled, his face twisting. "You want to be left alone. So you use isolation as an excuse, to hate, to put yourself above everyone else. But you can't do that with me. You can't be holier than thou, because deep down you want to keep me here." John didn't want to make him angry, he just wanted an explanation, that's all.

His hand was shaking, trembling just like it used to. He took another sip of his scotch and placed it down on the coffee table. He smiled, half heartedly. "I just want to understand what you're feeling." He said, finally looking at the detective.

Taking another drink of the amber liquid, Sherlock glances at John. "You're wrong, John." he says as he looks into the fire. "I have not sought isolation in order to hate. It's a simple fact that compared to me, everyone else is an idiot." He says as he glances at John. "I have maintained isolation to protect myself. Emotions. They are messy, overwhelming. Isolation allows me to prevent the pain that inevitably comes with getting close to anyone." While his tone starts off soft, and even a little hurt, it grows until it's full of the kind of hate that comes from a person who has been hurt by others more times than you can count.

"The Work is all that matters, John." Sherlock says in a firm tone. "Unfortunately, you are right in one sense." He says reluctantly as he stares into the flames of the fireplace. "You have somehow become an integral part of the Work. I do want you here." He allows, turning his head just slightly to glance at John with his piercing blue-green eyes.

John couldn't believe his ears. "That's it, that's all, you don't have anything else?! I am an 'integral part of the work'? Is that all I am to you? You saved me, over and over. I'd like to think I did the same for you." He said, his voice raising word by word.

John could tell Sherlock was hurting and didn't understand what he was feeling, but he was in the same boat. He couldn't just brush this aside and act like nothing happened. This thing that was growing inside of him, was trying to force its way out, no matter how hard he tried to stuff it down.

John looked down at the floor. "Tonight when my life should have been flashing before my eyes, it wasn't. But you were. You were the only thought in my head when I thought my life was going to end. Please Sherlock, tell me what that means." He said quietly, so quite it could have been the wind, even though both had heard what had been said.

Sherlock doesn't move, staring into the fireplace for a moment. "You obviously are expecting something from me. This is your area of expertise, John, not mine." he says as he looks over at John, sounding almost reluctant to admit that. Which he likely is. His hand resting on the mantle tightens, the only outward sign of his frustration. With the added pressure that John is putting on him right now, drugs are looking like a better and better option.

Finally, he moves away, suddenly all energy and movement. "I don't know what it means!" He suddenly yells, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know!" He says in frustration and anger, because he doesn't like not knowing. "I told you before you're my friend, my only friend." He says in a voice that borders on yelling. "When you stepped out, there was a moment when I thought you were Moriarty. That you had betrayed me. Seeing you strapped to a bomb made me panic." He admits as he looks at John. "Me. You tell me, John. What does THAT mean?!" He demands as he looks at the older man, considering it for a few moments, looking at the door and seeming like a rabbit that is about to bolt.

John stood up finally looking at the tall brunette, wanting to see the desperation he could only hear. Sherlock was scared. Hell, so was he, but John had to be strong, he had to be the strong one here. He looked over Sherlock's long and deceptively sturdy frame, taking a deep breath as he did. "I think it means that we need to figure this out...together. Because whatever this is, what ever is happening here, it has both of us terrified." He said looking at the man he had grown to trust and care for.

"I know you're scared, but so am I. And honestly all I want to do right now is take you in my arms and get rid of whatever hurt or pain or whatever you don't want to feel. But that's just one more thing that scares the life outta me." He said as he wore his heart on his sleeve. Admitting everything he was feeling and had been feeling since the moment he fell into Sherlock's waiting arms at the pool.

He took another step towards Sherlock, and another, and another, until they were both standing at the fireplace, sharing the same breaths. The air was tensed and charged and John could only stand there, staring into Sherlock's deep eyes. He had never really noticed if they were green or blue, but now he could see clearly that they were both, shifting in the light of the evening.

With little humor to his tone, Sherlock laughs shortly as he looks over at John, staring down at him for a few moments with a small frown on his face. "I think we both discovered in Baskerville that terrified is not an emotion I deal well with." Looking away again, he seriously fights the urge to step back, to put more space between the two of them.

"I always knew you were more of a physical person. But I believe you have been quite adamant the last few months about not being gay." he points out with a challenging arch of his eyebrow before he looks away, still tense and seeming ready to bolt, his eyes darting around the room, taking in everything without his usual calm examination. Once again, his hand returns to his forearm where he rubs the inside of it a little, an absent-minded gesture that John probably hasn't seen before, because this is the most stress and emotion he's been under since he met John.

Still, Sherlock scoffs lightly and turns toward the fire completely, hands resting on the mantle, his lean frame highlighted and outlined by the flickering flames of the fire, the light silhouetting his body as it flashes through his white dress shirt. "You were a soldier, John. It seems unlikely that emotional duress would make you terrified." He observes, looking at John over his arm for a moment before he drops his head to stare down at the fire, hiding a little between his arms too.

John laughed, now feeling the stress in the room floating away. "Yes, but this isn't just emotional, Sherlock. This is you. This is our friendship we are talking about." He said as he shifted in place.

Yes, he had been quite sure he wasn't gay...until he had a bomb wrapped around him. That was what changed. He and probably been feeling this way for a long time, but he didn't want to admit it. He was not gay. Sherlock was his exception. In fact John was fairly sure Sherlock was everyone's exception. How could he not be? John stared at the stunning detective, his pale skin glowing in the light from the fire, his dark hair a shadow, and his bright eyes peeking out underneath.

God. Why had he never noticed how beautiful he was before. It was like a flood of bricks hit him instantly, a wall came breaking down, just leading to his further realization. He had feelings for his flatmate. John Watson was in lo...crushing on Sherlock Holmes. This was strange, unwelcome, and so far past the invisible line that he couldn't even see a spot to turn around.

"I once told you, normal people have people they like, people they dislike, friends, acquaintances, girlfriends, and boyfriends, ect...In your mind what category do I fall into?" He asked, suddenly a bit to self conscious. After a few moments of silence, John finally spoke up. "Sherlock? You still with me?"

This is something Sherlock is not even sure he understands, and so he stays silent for a few moments, only a small bob of his head showing that he's even still listening. He shifts, straightening and dropping his hands from the fireplace, looking over at John for a few moments as he tries to figure him out, deduce what he can about the doctor.

"I think we can safely say that you do not fall into people I dislike, or mere acquaintances." Sherlock says dryly as he looks the doctor over for a few moments again. "I don't spend time analyzing our relationship, John. Beyond the certainty that we are friends. You're my friend, my doctor. You're reliable, steady, protective. When you aren't storming out of the flat to spend the night at your girlfriend's." He does feel the need to bring Sarah into it, since he was over at her house not too long ago, but there is also perhaps a note of jealousy to his tone as he looks John over. He's never liked Sarah, never had any qualms about expressing that, either.

In one smooth movement, Sherlock turns away from John and takes a few long strides over to where he left the bottle of scotch, pouring more into each of their glasses before he presses the cold tumbler into John's hand once again.

"Well maybe it's time you start analyzing. "He said as he took a sip of the dark brown liquor. It was strong, but also deep and rich, making that feeling in his chest that much warmer. Its not like he was in love with Sarah, it's not like he really even liked her. At this point it was convenient. She was nice, but did he really want nice? Or did he want shocking, exciting, and death defying?

"Sherlock, you knew Sarah and I were doomed from the start, as I'm sure you also know it's not going to last much longer. Perhaps it's because of this, maybe it's just that we're incompatible, I really don't know. All I know is she's not you. No girl could ever be, they can't even compare! You are the standard now, you are the bar, and you set it high." He laughed.

It was true though. While none of his girlfriends had ever left miscellaneous body parts in the fridge or ever had such a dangerous profession, that's not what he liked about Sherlock. He liked that he was different, he liked that he wasn't afraid to say what he thought (even when it offend people), he liked that he played by his own rules.

And that is something you can always count on, Sherlock to play by his own rules. He does snort a little though as he takes a drink out of his own glass. "I never understood why you were interested in that woman." he says with distaste. "She is insufferably boring. And even more of an idiot than you." And perhaps he did try to sabotage things just a little and he probably was a little jealous of anyone monopolizing John's time.

The detective is starting to relax a little now though that there is a little more pressure and a bit more alcohol burning through his system. And he maybe does preen a little bit under John's scrutiny and that he says he sets the bar high. "Analyzing takes time." he points out as he swirls the liquid around in his glass for a moment, staring into the liquid.

"Well I'm not rushing you. You can have as much time as you need. But I will be waiting, I want to see where this goes." John said, eyeing the detective. Now that he realized how gorgeous Sherlock really was...he couldn't get enough. He had always known he was attractive, but only to other people, because John Watson was straight. Was.

John looked down at his glass, empty. How many was he up to? Three, four? He didn't know, every time he got low Sherlock would come back with another round. He had to be getting up there though.

"Sherlock... I want you to take your time but I need to know at least which way you're leaning. I need to know if we are on the same page."

John closed his eyes, hoping that he would respond positively, but really, Sherlock was unpredictable. John had no way of knowing how he would react or what he would say, or even if he agreed with what John was proposing.

Of course most of the time Sherlock has no idea what John is proposing, and the small army doctor is a perplexing puzzle that he's yet to figure out. "You have to stay, John." He says finally, not sure if that's the right thing to say or even if that's what the other man is looking for.

Sherlock has also had quite a few drinks and has less of a tolerance to alcohol than John does, which makes him a little more unpredictable of course. He reaches out, hesitating before he runs his long fingers through John's hair briefly, before he rests that same hand on the man's shoulder. "I don't understand your question, John. But you can't leave. I... would not do well if you left." He says with a small nod of his head, not knowing how else to vocalize it, so he just downs the rest of the liquid in his glass and drops his hand away, before he moves away from the doctor a little, out of arm's reach at least, his little lapse with the physical touch over it would seem. Then again, he's uncomfortable as much with admitting he didn't understand as he was with what he just did. Why did he just do that with John's hair? Sure, he's been curious about it, it always looks nice, and soft, and sort of feathery. He didn't realize until just now that he wanted to touch it. Still, it's going to seem really odd and might make things awkward, which just makes him frown into the remains of his ice.

John bent under the weight of Sherlock's hand, loving the feeling of his touch. "It's alright, I have no intentions of leaving. I couldn't leave you." He said, groaning at the loss of the touch.

He smiled up at the taller man, cursing him for taking his hand away. "Why did you do that? Why did you pull away?" He asked. "If we are going to do this, you're gonna have to open up a bit. " John said, closing the space between them. He reached his hand over, resting it at the top of his shirt collar, moving his hand down and undoing the first of the buttons. Not having his hand slapped away seemed like a good sign but seeing the look on Sherlock's face said otherwise. He look petrified.

Tonight is apparently a night for confusion and his brief lapse because of the alcohol does not cover what's happening now, but with his mind slowed, it allows his comprehension to be slowed enough that John gets in close to him before he can really process anything. And physical matters? No, that's a little too much for him tonight, after everything that's happened, everything they've managed to discuss. After being as still as a statue, he suddenly jerks back from John and he shakes his head. "No." Is all he says before he does what he's wanted to do all evening: bolts.

Without thinking much about it, his feet carry him to the door and he sweeps up his jacket and scarf, putting them on as he fairly well runs down the stairs and out into the cold night. He can't handle this, not everything together, it's too much. Too much for the nicotine to compensate for, too much for alcohol to dull. After nearly four years, he needs something stronger. Briefly, he glances up at one of the CCTV cameras that he knows Mycroft is likely monitoring, suddenly cutting down an alley, following routes he knows are not monitored to the man he knows is in a certain place every night. The one that will have his formula on hand. Why? Because it's good business, good profit. And if he doesn't, then he can always mix it himself. Takes a bit longer, but he needs it. Once an addict, always an addict, that's what they say, isn't it? When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he doesn't even look at it, not knowing who it is but he ignores it.

John will be disappointed. If he finds out. He doesn't have to find out, he convinces himself. There are bolt holes he can go to where John won't find him, he'll return back home tomorrow and he'll be fine, the doctor will never know, never has to know. And then maybe they can move forward, after Sherlock gets himself under control.

Sherlock, please come home. - JW

I didn't mean it. -JW

Sherlock, I'm sorry. -JW

He wanted to tell him to come home and he wanted to say he didn't mean it, but he couldn't. Because he knew Sherlock wouldn't come home, no matter how much he pleaded, and really he did mean mean what he was saying and doing. Though he understood why Sherlock was freaking out, this wasn't the right time for this. After the night they had, Moriarty, and all this on top of it, it made sense. Really he knew he should have slowed it down, Sherlock had little if no experience in this area. But this is what John was used to, getting drunk = having sex. Hell, he didn't even know if he was ready for that. Now that he thought about it, he should have been more responsible, especially when it came Sherlock. God, how could he have been so stupid. He had had quite a few stupid moments, but this one was at the top.

He wanted to bang his head into the table but instead he looked into the dying fire. For a moment he considered building it up once more but quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't want to move, he just wanted to sit here and erase the night that had just passed.

Sherlock attains his goal and finds a seedy hotel which isn't horrible, a place that he's been before rather successfully. He looks at his phone after he gets the injection prepared and he hesitates, tempted to reply, a part of him wanting to reassure his doctor.

I'm safe. -SH

That's all he says, that's all he feels the need to say. He won't make promises, he won't spew words of forgiveness, that's not what John needs and it's not Sherlock's style. Making sure that his phone is set to vibrate, he sets it aside before he feels the slide of a needle into his skin and he falls into oblivion.

Back at the flat, a different person arrives, in person this time. There is a ring at the doorbell, a slick black car waiting outside with the engine running meaning its occupant who is currently standing on the stoop is not planning on being there long. But the man, with his umbrella and impeccable suit, waits patiently for an occupant of 221B to let him into the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a knock at the door, then the door bell buzzed, and then another knock.

"Coming!" John called down, not really willing to move, but knowing he had to. He stood up, his shoulder aching but the edge taken off by the alcohol. He made his way down to the front door, knowing it wasn't Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson, which made him wonder...who was at the door?

John padded down the stairs, anxious to get this over with so he could go back to his sulking. He reached for the door knob, turning it swiftly to reveal the tall, dark, figure in front of him.

Mycroft sighed impatiently. "Hello John. May I come in? We need to talk about Sherlock." He said as he pushed past, moving him out of the way.

"Hello to you too. But this really isn't the best time..." John replied, but by this time Mycroft was already climbing the stairs. So John followed, hoping that if he couldn't avoid this, at least he could get this over quickly.

One glance around the flat and Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella for a few moments. "After a night such as tonight, I would imagine you would both be eager to stay in, and yet Sherlock has chosen to go out, quite in a rush from what I understand." He says without preamble as he looks over at John. "Tell me, do you know where your flatmate is, Doctor Watson?" He asks in his droll tone, standing by Sherlock's chair though he hasn't sat down, standing casually with his umbrella tip resting on the ground and his hand on the handle.

Despite appearances, there is a concern and an urgency to both Mycroft's words and his mannerisms that John likely hadn't seen before. And despite everything he does simply seem to care deeply for his brother which means that as always, the elder Holmes knows more than he is telling outright.

John suddenly felt ashamed, but he couldn't understand why. He hadn't done anything wrong, at least not where Mycroft was involved. "Not since he left, though he did text me saying he was safe."

Mycroft scoffed. "Safe. He doesn't know the meaning of the word!"

He didn't understand what was going on here. Did Mycroft have a point? John stumbled into the kitchen, the alcohol definitely effecting him at this point. He flicked on the kettle, making himself a cup of tea, hoping it would sober him up enough for this conversation.

"I'm not his mother, neither are you. Maybe we should..." John started.

Mycroft looked dangerous. Very much like the day they had met but without the body guards and the seedy warehouse. "What? Leave him to his own devices? I've seen how that plays out John." He said as he spun his umbrella, making a mark in the flooring.

John sipped his tea, not quite how he liked it but bearable. "It's not our place to stand over him and watch his every move."John argued.

"You and I both know that is a lie. It's a very good excuse that you give yourself in order to keep yourself from feeling guilty when Sherlock gets hurt." Mycroft snaps as he looks at the man before him. "Surely you must have known by the time you decided to move in here that Sherlock Holmes needs a certain amount of looking after. How often did he eat, or sleep when you moved in, John? You're a medical man." He says in a firm tone as he looks at John, taking one menacing step toward the kitchen.

For a moment the taller man looks down at the ground and he takes a deep breath, obviously trying to keep calm. "Let me put this another way. Whatever happened in this flat, Sherlock left, and wherever he fled to, I cannot see. He is deliberately avoiding cameras in the way only he can. Now why, pray tell, do you suppose he would feel the need to avoid cameras, keep anyone from tracking him? If this does not concern you, then you do not know my dear brother as well as I thought." Mycroft says in a cold tone, one that he usually does not use in his meetings with John.

This is something serious, it is not joking, it is not jovial, something had this unflappable man truly and deeply concerned for his younger brother. That alone should set several alarms up, not to mention that Sherlock's idea of safe is often not the same as the rest of the world.

Mycroft couldn't see him. Mycroft couldn't find him. The terrifying part was that Sherlock knew this. He knew this, he had done this on purpose.

"What do you know?"John asked, his voice turning serious and sour.

He looked away, moving to the window, staring out at the passing cars. Mycroft wouldn't look at him, he looked everywhere but at John.

"Tell me!" He shouted. Not caring that he was yelling at the British government, this was about Sherlock. And bloody hell, Mycroft would tell him what he knew.

Mycroft finally met his gaze, glaring at him coldly. He wasn't used to divulging his secrets, but John was prepared to stare him down. " I don't know much. Last we saw, he turned off Paddington street, headed for the gardens."

John was angry now, he had sobered up, and he was furious. This was the head of the secret service, this was the hidden prime minister, and that was all he knew. John shook his head, slamming his mug onto the counter with so much force he thought it might break. "That's not good enough!" He yelled.

The little temper tantrum that John displays makes Mycroft arch an eyebrow and he looks at John for a few moments. He is not pleased at being ordered about, but he shows it as an encouraging sign that the doctor is showing the proper level of concern now. "Do you imagine that anyone could find Sherlock Holmes if he does not want to be found?" He asks, a little calmer now as he looks at John.

"I have my suspicions. But I would frighten off the people you need to speak to." Mycroft explains, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. "The name of a man you may want to speak to, and where he usually can be found. He's one of Sherlock's old... contacts. And one of his most reliable, apparently." This is something he can indulge at least, and he holds out the piece of paper pinched between his forefinger and middle finger, gloves still on from where he was outside, not having intended to stay this long.

After the paper passes to the soldier in front of him, Mycroft clasps both hands on the handle of his umbrella in front of him. "There is still much you don't know about Sherlock, Doctor Watson. Much about his past he obviously hasn't divulged. Be careful if you go down this path, you may find a different man than the one you expect." he says before he walks for the door. He's done his duty, and now he will let the other man do what he will with the information.

"Goodbye Mycroft." John said as he ran out the door, just grabbing his jacket and gun before he left. He looked over the paper in his hand,

Matthew Black (otherwise known as Pigeon)

Corner of Graffton and Whitfield.

Hell that was close, still a few blocks, but easily walkable. There were plenty of back roads and alleys along this route, it would be simple for Sherlock to avoid attention and cameras. John could only hope he got there in time, in time to stop the beautiful idiot. John was aware of his drug usage, but he wasn't sure if he could handle actually seeing it. Seeing Sherlock high as a kite, needle on the floor...he didn't want to think about it.

Guilt weighed on his mind, knowing he had been the one to drive him to this. He could blame it on the alcohol or this thing or that, but John knew it was all him. All his fault, and he had a feeling Sherlock did too.

John ran down the many back streets, hoping to catch him or at least get to his dealer quickly. He passed many people slumped against dirty buildings, thugs you wouldn't want to see in a dark alley (such as this one), and this was just not a place he wanted to be.

When he finally got to the corner...it was deserted, empty. It was crushing. Where did he go now, where did he look? He bent down, still trying to catch his breath. How long had Sherlock been gone, half an hour? Forty minutes? How far could he go?

Suddenly John heard a coo, and then once more, suspicious. It was coming from behind the corner of a building, even better. John pulled out his handgun, still holding it close as he approached the building. Another coo. He flew around the corner, catching a less than sightly man off guard.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, his voice raised.

The man shivered and started to stutter. "Oi! I dun know any Sherlock!"

John pointed the gun at the man's foot. "Tell me, or I shoot!" He said, not playing any games.

"Lockie? Do you mean Lockie?" He asked, straightening out a bit, showing that the man he had been about to shoot looked no more than twenty. He was just a kid.

John thought about it, Lockie would be a likely alias. "Sure. Have you seen him?" He asked, now slightly calmer, but his voice still in army tone.

The kid...presumably Matthew looked scared, about as scared as John felt. " 'Bout an hour go, mate. I gave him his stuff, and he went to spot, like they all do." The kid said

An hour. Shite. His chances of finding him just went down dramatically. "Do you know where his spot is?" John asked as he holstered his gun and took out his wallet.

"Two blocks that way, empty building, third floor." He said, staring at John's wallet.

John pulled out a couple of notes, folding them and passing them to the kid. "Thank you. Take this and find a new line of work."

John pushed he wallet back into his pocket and started running once more, and fast and as hard as he could, running as if his life depended on it. He turned into the abandoned lot, with the deserted concrete building looking down on him.

The building has been abandoned for some time, obviously. Someone must live there semi permanently because there are some tents outside and some pallets leaned up against the walls. The doors were boarded up at one time, but they have been cleared enough to get into, some windows broke. In the upper floor.

Inside, it is in surprisingly sturdy shape, with lots of graffiti, and trash along the side. The place is relatively empty though, one or two people in each room. Sherlock is indeed on the third floor in a room by himself, on the edge of consciousness. He looks ok, since it's not like he's been there for days, but as far as the drug use goes, John is indeed too late.

John climbed the stripped concrete steps, counting each one till he reached the third floor. He knew needed to help Sherlock but he didn't want to see him like this. He took a deep breath before turning into the first empty doorway, nothing. Same with the second, and the third. But not with the fourth. John peeled around the corner, intending to see another empty room, but what he saw was so much worse.

Sherlock was sprawled out on a soiled mattress that was pressed up against one of the scratched up wall. Needles were scattered across the floor, John knowing that at least one of them was Sherlock's. There was a belt that sat next to the bed, along with lighters a spoon, and various other drug accessories.

He looked so weak, splayed, semi-conscious, and strung out. John tip toed, careful not to disturb anything, he just want this to be over with. He didn't want to see his friend, the crazy, confident, sociopath, laying in a crack house barely able to make coherent sentences. What kind of a mess had they gotten into

John kicked away the needles and trash, creating a kind of clean area. "Sherlock, you in there?" He asked as he kneeled beside the mattress and took his face in his hands. "Come on, it's time to wake up."

A bit weakly and somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock opens his eyes to look at the voice that is calling him back from the blessed, blank oblivion. "John?" He asks in surprise, frowning a little. It's obvious his usual quickness is gone right at the moment.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, waking more and more, finally forcing himself to sit up, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Either that or he just doesn't care, but it's hard to tell.

John laughed darkly. "What do you think I'm doing here, you git. I came to bring you home."

It was true, that's what he had come to do, he had just hoped to get here before this happened. And now that it had, he wasn't really sure where to go from here. Did he take Sherlock home, did he take him to Mycroft, or to the hospital. That's if he was willing to go and John could lug him out of this place. He hadn't really thought that far ahead he had just kind of assumed he would cross that bridge when he came to it...and here he was.

He sat down next to Sherlock on the filthy mattress. Looking around at the disgusting mess of this place. "You know, for a control freak, you sure have a nasty bolt hole."

"This is not my preferred location. I have a motel I prefer, but I did not wish to be tracked with my card and did not have the means to afford it." Sherlock says as he looks around hazily.

"Is my dear brother waiting for us at the flat? You could only have gotten my location from him as we have never discussed this." He says in a cool tone, glancing at the doctor before he scoots over to the edge of the mattress and stands slowly. He had been using his jacket as a blanket, but now he puts it on properly with a small sigh. Oddly enough, he seems pretty ok in this state, knowing how to take enough that he isn't completely laid out, unable to do anything.

John smiled as Sherlock started to move about, meaning hopefully he wouldn't have to pull him out of here. " I'm not sure, I don't think so."

He stood up, ready to get out of this place. It was just so dark, damp, cold, and unfamiliar, he didn't like it at all. But he knew he had to get Sherlock to safety, he had to get him home, so that what he set his mind to. But before he could, he had to do one thing.

"Sherlock...I'm sorry, I should have been more responsible and considerate of your feelings...I don't know what came over me. But I really am sorry." He apologized, hoping that he could gain back a little of Sherlock's trust.

Of course the detective doesn't see it the same way, that any trust was broken, so he gives John an odd look, before he looks forward again.

"Best if we put it behind us, then. It has merely been a stressful day with rather unusual circumstances. I am sure things will be clearer in the morning." Sherlock says in a somewhat colder tone, sounding a little more irritable than he usually us, likely thanks to the drugs.

Without another look at the smaller man, the detective flips up his collar and heads for the exit on slightly unsteady feet, stumbling once and bracing himself on the door frame, while he maintains a firm grip on the railing while going down the stairs.

John sighed, his breath shaky, that's not quite how he wanted that to go. Even strung out Sherlock's legs still carried him ten times faster than John's could. John practically had to run to catch up to him on the street.

"Wait, Sherlock. I want whatever your carrying. I'm not letting you take that stuff back to the flat and store away for a rainy day. Hand it over." He said holding open his waiting hand.

Sherlock's face contorted, unwilling to give up what he was holding. "We aren't going home till you give it to me. So better to just get it over with, ya?"

John sighed, knowing what he might have to do. He would have to treat him like the child he was being. "One...two..."

While he would never admit to being childish, he is frustrated by John, and so pulls the small packet of powder out of his jacket and slaps it into John's hand. While it's not much, it is enough for one, maybe two doses.

"I am keeping the needle, it could be useful in my experiments or in our first aid kit." Sherlock says stubbornly, already looking like he's sulking a little with his head ducked down between the collar of his jacket a little.

"Anything else, Doctor? Or can we return home now, since you seemed so eager earlier?" He asks in a dry tone as he watched the older man.

John put the drugs into his inside pocket, zipping up his jacket so Sherlock couldn't get at it. "No, give it up. Cold turkey, mate." He said as he snatched the needle out of Sherlock's hand. He threw it on the ground, grinding it into the cement with his shoe.

Sherlock was unhappy. He pouted, even the drugs didn't away to whole craving, and he wanted more. But John wasn't going to let that happen.

"Come on, let's go home now." The blonde said as he hailed down an oncoming cab. "Maybe if you're good I'll make you a cuppa." He said with a laugh as he put his hand on Sherlock's lower back and guided him into the taxi.

The touch earned him an incredulous look from the detective. "Just helping you into the car." He said with a smile as he followed him.

"Baker Street please." He directed the driver. He was done with this night, it was time to go home and start a new day. He thought about the day's events, resting his hand on Sherlock's knee.

But it made John happy that Sherlock was now safe, and they were on their way back to the flat, but that made him wonder what Mycroft had meant when he said, "Be careful if you go down this path, you may find a different man than the one you expect."

But he couldn't think about that, he had to focus on the present, on what was happening with them now. Because whatever this was, it was big. Everything was changing between them, and John wanted to see where this was going, because as much as he enjoyed their friendship, the prospect of this was new and something he hadn't expected.

"Sherlock, we're home."

* * *

><p><strong>And here we have the second chapter! Thank you to everyone who has followed this so far, I'm glad that you guys like it, or are at least interested enough to see where it goes. We are still having a lot of fun writing this, so we'll see where it goes!<strong>

**Comments/Reviews very welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock is pulled out of the sort of daze he went into - to the point he didn't realize John had his hand on the detective's knee - in the cab, he gets out and waits for John to unlock the door before heading upstairs slowly, managing to toe off his shoes and hang up his jacket before he says, "Goodnight, John." And goes to his bedroom, shutting the door. He's still sulking a little, both because he's annoyed with himself for giving in to his craving for drugs, but also that John knew enough to take away the extra that he had. It's not as if he couldn't get more if he wanted, but he did want to keep some around. Just in case.

When the morning comes, Sherlock rises late and finally drags himself out of bed when he hears John in the kitchen. Hopefully he's making food, is the first thought Sherlock has. The second is that he desperately needs a shower. Therefore, he grabs a towel and ducks into the bathroom before John can get a hold of him. And yes, he takes a long, hot shower that has the entire room filled with steam. The bad thing? He forgot his clothes.

Not to worry, it's not the first time nor the last that he's stepped out of the bathroom with only a towel around his waist. "John, when is Mrs. Hudson's next trip to the cleaner's?" he calls as he makes his way from the bathroom, the steam rolling out behind him, toward his bedroom.

John turned his head to look down the hallway and answer his flatmate, only to have Sherlock walk down the hallway looking like a Grecian god, his slender frame wrapped in only a thin towel. He must have absolutely no respect for boundaries, John thought...but really if John got to see that on a daily basis, to hell with boundaries.

The sight of Sherlock, like that, had thrown him right through a loop. It was truly unfair to the world to have that covered up all the time. Wait...Sherlock had asked him a question, hadn't he..what was it?

"Um, not till tomorrow I think, maybe the end of the week." He stumbled, trying to force the words out.

He quickly returned to the kitchen, throwing a mish-mash of ingredients into the frying pan, trying to distract himself. It wasn't quite an omelet, but it would be tasty. John had never really enjoyed cooking but ever since he had moved into 221B, he had seemed to be doing an awful lot of just that. Because even though Sherlock claimed he hardly ate, John knew otherwise.

The doctor had just put the eggs onto their plates (split evenly, of course), as Sherlock walked into the small kitchen. "Ready for some breakfast? " John asked.

"If I must." The detective replies with his usual attitude, even though he doesn't fight John nearly as much as he used to when it comes to food, except when he's on a case. Then again, left to his own devices, he does tend to forget about simple things like feeding himself.

Apparently Sherlock is not intent on going anywhere today, as he's dressed himself in a mere t-shirt and pajama pants with his robe open over it, looking years younger than he usually does, with damp hair curling a bit wildly. When he finally raises his eyes to look at John, he glances over his jumper-wearing flatmate, a small furrow of concentration forming between his eyebrows as he takes in everything.

"Looks like there's nothing interesting to be had." Sherlock says as he looks at the paper and puts it aside with his usual frustration before he goes back to eating, though he still seems a little out of sorts.

John just laughed as he pushed the paper away. He had learned early on to just brush off Sherlock's normal grumpiness. It was nice to see him eating though, that usually helped to get him out of his ugly morning rut.

"That's too bad, it would be nice to have a distraction right about now." He said in between forkfuls of egg.

After a few awkward moments the soldier coughed and cleared his throat. "Why don't we just get this over with, hmm? Last night...that was a bit not good." He said as he tried to gauged Sherlock's immeasurable reaction.

John looked over the brunette, and he saw nothing. A blank slate to say the least. Because as good as Sherlock was at reading people's emotions, he was even better at hiding his own. Sherlock's head tilted, and his eating slowed before he finally put his fork down. Was that a thinking face? Was he angry? One more reason that Sherlock was the one who did the deductions, John was absolute crap at it.

"It was the only way to clear my mind." Sherlock replies simply as if that should explain or excuse his behavior.

Slowly, the detective sits back in his chair, shaking his head for a moment. "You seemed surprised when you found out about my past with drugs, but you failed to realize why. I was not arbitrary in my use and it has a very specific purpose." He says as he finally looks away from the doctor, briefly seeming ashamed or embarrassed but the expression is fleeting.

"I say it must be boring in your mind John because you have no concept as to how mine works. It is always working. I see everything, more than any others. Can you possibly imagine what it is like to deal with that from childhood?" He challenges in a rare moment of open honesty and vulnerability.

John shook his head, standing up and throwing his fork onto his plate. "Don't give me the 'you're not smart enough' speech, Sherlock." John said with anger running through his voice. "I can understand more than you think, as far as ordinary people go, I tend to be considered to be one of the smarter ones."

He balled up his fists, trying to contain the fury that was starting to grow. "I am trying, here. I am trying to understand. But you can't just go for a fix every time you can't handle something. You need to work these things out, without getting high." He said, his voice getting louder and louder.

John kicked the cupboard with a bit more force than he intended. "Dammit, Sherlock. If we are going to be friends or whatever, you have to start treating me like I understand, even if I don't. Is that clear? "

"The way you start yelling every time something upsets you?" Sherlock challenges, sort of used to John's outbursts as he looks up at the older man. Slowly and deliberately, he stands as well, "I am attempting to make you understand, if you would control your anger for a moment." He points out before he walks to the front windows, abandoning the rest of his food.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the detective starts speaking again, loud enough for the other to hear. "You have known me for nearly a year, John. This is the first time I have.. gone for a fix, as you put it, in nearly four years. Perhaps that will give you a better understanding." Still he keeps his back to John, fingers beating out a rhythm against his wrist from where his hands are behind his back, observing everything that is happening on the street below.

The Doctor closed his eyes, knowing that Sherlock was right, as always. He had over reacted, but between the stress of the night before, the hangover he was now gently nursing, and the shock of everything, how else was he supposed to react. Overall he had a calm demeanor but when it came to Sherlock it seemed like he was always yelling about something.

"I know that. I'm sorry, I am trying to be better." John said slowly moving towards the window where Sherlock was now standing. He looked out, attempting to observe things the way Sherlock did, but that seemed nearly impossible. "I am just trying to help, and I know I'm making a bloody mess of it, but that's why I need you." He said, once again calming himself.

He took one of Sherlock's hands from behind his back and caressed it in his own. "You aren't afraid to tell me when I'm being an idiot, which you do often, or when I need to take a step back. You level me. But last night...seeing you like that...something inside me snapped." John said as he moved a step closer.

Looking down as his hand is taken, Sherlock frowns slightly at the touch. "You're acting quite out of character these last few days, John." He points out the obvious, but doesn't pull his hand back at the moment, even though he's a bit perplexed.

"Perhaps your therapist should have been more concerned about your anger issues than your psychosomatic limp." The detective says thoughtfully before he looks back out the window, taking a deep breath to keep himself calm and relaxed. "You're always an idiot." He says with a slight smirk, this time making it a deliberate jab which has him slightly amused.

John thought about it, he had been acting strangely, little touches, yelling at Sherlock, getting angry at practically anything, not to mention looking at Sherlock in a whole different light. What was going on here? He hadn't defined it, maybe he was afraid to, but something had him bent out of shape and he didn't know what, but most importantly he didn't know how to fix it.

"Thanks for that. Good to know what you think of me." John laughed. He moved away slightly, not wanting to put too much space between them, but still wanting to distance himself a little. "I don't know what I'm doing, Sherlock. You're the man with all the answers, tell me how to fix it." He pleaded, almost begging.

"You forget, John, I look to you for emotional guidance. Before you consider anything, would it not first be considered socially proper to deal with Sarah?" Sherlock asks, unable to keep the slight jealousy from his tone when he speaks of Sarah.

Reclaiming his hand, Sherlock clasps them behind his back again before speaking. "Surely that will give both of us some time to think things over and clear our heads." He says calmly, since he did say he needed some time to think things over, not really sure how he thinks of John.

Oh God. Sarah... He had completely forgotten, he was still technically in a relationship, with his boss no less. John backed up, practically falling into his chair. He ran his hands over his face, what was he going to do. While he didn't see the relationship going anywhere, it was nice to have an occasional shag, seeing as Sarah was always on hand.

How do you break up with your boss and keep your job, was that even possible? If so, was there a how to guide? How to break up with your girlfriend so you can seduce you sociopath of a flatmate. How to understand something that you can't understand. How to get rid of unwanted feelings. Well this was just peachy. How was he going to work his way out of this?

"Ya, that's probably for the best." John said as he regained his thinking capacity. "Don't think this means that I have forgotten about the drugs. Can you just promise me that next time, you will try and hold back?" he asked, realizing that they had gone completely off track.

When John goes silent, Sherlock turns slightly to watch him, practically able the shock, concern, and embarrassment go over his face, which causes the brunette to be slightly amused. However, when the drugs are brought up again, the amusement fades and the detective picks up his violin to tune it a bit, just for something to do with his hands.

"The only assurance I can give you, John, is that if I feel that strong of an urge again, I will try and talk to you first." Sherlock allows, before he fits the violin under his chin, picks up the bow, and starts to play a rather sweet and soothing melody.

The music floated around the room, adding a sense of calm and culture to their messy living space. Slowly John could feel his anxiousness melt away with the magic of Sherlock's, maybe playing did the same for Sherlock, he mused as he continued to listen.

John needed to get his ducks in a row and straighten this whole mess out. But first he had to decide what he wanted, did he want to be the same John Watson he had always been, saving Sarah's number for when he got desperate, or did he want to take a chance with Sherlock and just hope that Sherlock felt the same way. Hope that what happened with Moriarty had had the same effect on the anti-emotional, 'I don't do friends', Sherlock that he had come to know. John just prayed that if he did follow that path, that when all was said and done he wouldn't lose his best friend, his only friend.

"That's enough." He said quietly, smiling as much as he could, even though he knew it was a sad effort. "Sherlock...I'll take whatever you are willing to give." John didn't just mean when it came to his addiction, but he was leaving that for Sherlock to decipher.

John started to clean up their breakfast mess, not that the meal had gone very well anyway. He didn't mind tidying, but it would be nice if Sherlock helped now and again. John opened the fridge and sighed, they need groceries...a lot of them.

"I need to run to the store, we are out of, well, basically everything." He said with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

Even through the music which allowed Sherlock to focus and think, the man is aware of his flatmates words and movements, glancing at him before he gets up, finally turning back to the window.

"I need matches." Sherlock calls over his shoulder when John talks about needing to shop. Things are back to normal in that regard at least.

"Hoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson calls as she makes it to the top of the stairs. "Oh, I am so glad to see you boys are alright.. that is a lovely tune, Sherlock." She says loud enough for him to hear before she steps I to the kitchen with John. "I brought some of Sherlock's favorite scones, dear. Did you two have a bit of a domestic last night? I heard yelling." She says with concern as she kisses John's cheek in a motherly fashion, sighing good-natured when she sees the state of the flat.

John smiled, as much as he loved Mrs. Hudson, she was always looking for the scoop. "I'm sorry it's a bit of a mess. I've been trying to keep it tidy, but you know how Sherlock gets." He said, shrugging his shoulders and looking towards the detective.

He wanted to look away...but at the same time he didn't. Sherlock looked so at peace when he was playing, he just zoned out, and it was beautiful.

"John? John?" Mrs. Hudson called, waving he hand, bringing him back to reality.

He shook his head, trying to reconcile with his brain. "What was that?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed and put her hand on her hip, obviously easily exasperated with her tenants listening abilities.

"You two, never listening to a word I say. I said, had a bit of a domestic did we?" She asked once more.

He laughed, unsure of how else to respond. "Oh you know how it is. Everyone has a good row now and again.

She nodded and giggled. "Mmm, my husband was just the same."

After a few chatterless moments, John broke the silence. "Thank you for the scones, , but I really must be heading off. Otherwise we will have nothing to eat but those." He chuckled, keeping the conversation light.

"Alright dear." She said, gently touching his shoulder as he moved to grab his coat.

After Mrs. Hudson leaves, Sherlock pauses in his playing for a few moments as he thinks of something. "I am almost out of nicotine patches as well." he says as he looks back at John. And considering that he already has issues with the drug thing right now, taking away his nicotine would not be the best of ideas.

"I'm glad you're trying to give up that nasty habit, Sherlock. It was no good, especially the way you go running about.." Mrs. Hudson says with a shake of her head as she heads for the stairs. "You two boys behave, now." She says as she waves over her shoulder and heads back downstairs.

Rolling his eyes at Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock looks down at his violin, putting it aside to rub a cloth over the bow before he picks it back up. "I may go to St. Bart's later, I have a few things I need to analyze.." He says mostly to himself, but also partially to John, wanting to keep him in the loop a bit so that the doctor won't think he's just run off.

John wanted to ask if he could come to Bart's, to ask if he could spend more time watching his brilliant mind at work, but he didn't. Sherlock probably wanted to be alone with his data, away from distractions, and John was definitely distracting.

"Um, Sherlock." John said unsteadily. "You could come with me to the store, I mean, if you want to. But you don't have to...just a thought." Why was he still talking? Why couldn't he stop the unending flow of words that had started spilling out of his mouth. Sherlock hated shopping, hated stores, hated cramped places with lots of people, he thought as he waited for Sherlock to reply. "Though it would be nice if you came with me, or at least, I think it would be. But it's up to you, I'm fine either way..." John continued, trying to cover his earlier remark with more words and still failing.

"You're babbling." Sherlock points out brusquely as he looks at the doctor for a few moments, taking him in for a few moments. "You never get the right patches anyway." He says by way of excuse, putting his violin down very carefully before he turns and walks toward his bedroom. Seeing as he's not even dressed to go out. And did he just agree to go with John, even though he hates shopping? Well, hell has finally frozen over.

It doesn't take long for the detective to be dressed, looking at John for a moment and taking in his stunned expression. "Come now, John, don't look so shocked. You thrive on my unpredictability. What do you suppose I did before we became flatmates?" He says as he swirls on his coat and ties his ever present scarf around his neck. "You're never fine when you go to the shop. You always have a row with the machine, or complain about the lines or one of another long list of offenses. Going with you seems the only way to avoid it." Then again, the older man really has no idea what he's getting into, inviting Sherlock along with him, the man who can both completely concentrate on something and also has an amazingly short attention span.

John was still amazed that Sherlock said yes. Well, he didn't...not in so many words, but John would take every little bit he could. John could feel his mouth drop as he watched him put his coat on. "So, ya, you're coming...that's great, ya." He said, flustered at the thought.

"Have you ever actually been shopping? Or to the store for that matter?" John asked, curiously imagining what Sherlock would be like if he shopped alone. He had always assumed that he had had someone to shop for him or that his groceries had been delivered, but perhaps that hadn't always been the case.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's remark, but really what was he supposed to say? I thought between Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, you would never have to go into a store. Or I didn't think you were the shopping type. No, it was best just to ask and find out for sure, especially with Sherlock. It seemed like everyone assumed that he had done this or that or lived a certain way, but no one ever knew for sure.

"Honestly, John. You forget that we have only been flatmates for a short time. I have attempted to have flatmates before but for reasons I am sure you will understand better than me, it never lasted long. I have lived alone and I have been shopping. Though I preferred smaller markets. Less idiots." Sherlock says as he heads down the stairs, expecting John to follow the way he always does.

When they reach the outside sidewalk, the detective finishes pulling on his gloves and then looks over at John expectantly since he isn't sure where the older man prefers to shop. "I have lived in a dorm, alone, and I have been homeless." He says honestly as he watches John. After a few minutes, and sounding rather reluctant about it, he also admits, "I can even cook. It's all just chemistry."

The blonde just laughed. "You should not have said that." He said, an evil look coming over his face. Obviously they would have to do a few...trials...of Sherlock's cooking, but if Sherlock said he could do it, John was willing to bet he did it well. "We might have to start sharing that unfortunate responsibility. "

He quirked his eyebrow at the lack of response, though it probably just meant no, John still hoped. He would have to try Sherlock's cooking eventually, but for right now they had to get to the store. "Mind taking the tube?"

"I have more important things to do, John, and you have been providing our meals rather adequately when we don't eat out." Sherlock finally speaks after a few long moments of silence, figuring that the doctor would not merely let it go if he continued to ignore him. "Honestly, you underestimate your skill in that area." He tries a bit of flattery to get himself out of it, though he's not lying, finally looking over at the older man.

Instead of giving any sort of response to the question about the tube, he turns in the direction of the nearest station and starts walking, hands slipping into his coat pockets as he looks around at everything. Not pushing the matter is his way of hoping that the 'homeless' comment slipped by the older man in favor of the cooking comment which seemed to be more of a shock.

"Don't think a little compliment is going to get you off that easy. One day..." He trailed off as he hurried to catch up. The day was cold, frozen air ran down the inside of his jacket, making him shiver as he pulled alongside the detective. "You know, we don't have to run off everywhere, we can just walk." He puffed.

He waited patiently as Sherlock slowed (slightly), and he smiled. They walked in a comfortable silence for a while, only making little noises here and there. It was nice, they didn't do this often enough. There were always running about, chasing after criminals and the like, it was nice to just walk once in a while.

John warmed almost instantly as they descended into the station, the cozy air consuming him. He loved train stations for some strange reason. They were always busy, loud, and never boring. They had so much mystery, turns that led to nowhere, hidden lines that no one even knew about, lost history that (for the most part) never came to be.

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><p><strong>We are still super excited about this story, and I hope that you're enjoying it, since we're having a blast writing it. Let me know what you think!<strong>

**Comments/Reviews welcome!**


	4. Chapter 4

While the tube may be warmer, it's not necessarily more comfortable. There's not a lot of people this time of day but it's enough for Sherlock to be diverted, frowning a little as he looks from person to person, clearly deducing them but at the same time making sure to stay next to John. He knows his limits and he knows that if he happens to get overwhelmed, the doctor will be able to get him out of it.

Once they are on their way, the detective glances around as he holds onto one of the poles to keep himself steady. "I hope you don't intend on taking the tube back once we've finished the shopping, it would be very inconvenient with a large number of bags." He says as he looks at his shorter companion, then he looks around at everyone, giving a few of those he sees a rather disdainful look.

John raised his eyebrow, in a clear do-you-think-I'm-stupid kind of way, before remembering that in comparison to Sherlock he kind of was. So instead of responding he just nodded, feigning a small smile as he did.

"Sherl..." He started as he felt the train start to slow and pull into the first of many stations. John looked to Sherlock to see how he would react to the influx of people who were about to swarm into the train. Before the doors opened, he moved closer, too close. He was definitely into Sherlock's personal space, probably crowding him, but John didn't feel the need to pull away.

He took a deep breath, his nose practically cradled in the crook of the detective's neck. Sherlock's aftershave flooded his senses, making his legs feel like jelly, his heartbeat speed up, and the train start to spin. But soon the doors were spread, allowing the crowd at one of London's busiest stations to pile in, and within moments the haze of Sherlock was gone. Now the train was packed, men, women, children, a mixture of cultures, with each one bringing with them their own scent to add to the mix, completely drowning out Sherlock's (much to John's dismay).

"You seem to be mangling my name recently, John. Have you forgotten the entire thing or are you merely attempting to find a nickname?" Sherlock asks distractedly as he looks around, then he frowns slightly when John steps in close, only to figure out why - or at least in his mind why John would do such a thing - when the doors open. His hand tightens on the support bar, and he takes a sharp breath when he's suddenly crowded in by all sides.

The detective was never a claustrophobic person, but neither does he like the assault on his senses of so many sights, sounds and smells. "Why did you choose to take this mode of transportation rather than a cab?" He asks after the doors close, looking down at the shorter man with a disapproving frown on his face, the comment bitten out almost between clenched teeth. Clearly he's not happy with the situation, but since there is nowhere to go, he's dealing with it the best he can. It's not like yelling at the idiots around him will do any good, and even with John's fighting prowess they are mightily outnumbered. And once again, there's nowhere to go.

John rubbed his shoulder with his free hand."I don't know. I didn't even think about it. Just my routine, I guess. I'm sorry, I should have thought it through better." He moved away (slightly), from the taller man, giving him as much space as he could manage.

He mentally kicked himself. How could he have been so short sighted, he should have expected the lunch rush, but he hadn't and now they were stuck. Stuck in a tin can, packed in like sardines, with a sociopath and his overprotective flatmate. This was not a good combination. But what could be done?

"Are you alright?" He asked, the concern running through his voice.

Sherlock barely hears what John is saying to him at first, his mind focusing on other things that are taking priority over the apologies of his flatmate. Like the apparently drunken man who is standing close by, swaying a little and occasionally bumping into the detective.

There is only so much this particular sociopath can be expected to take, and finally he reaches his limit. "Would you control yourself! If you cannot stand upright, find yourself a seat, or better yet, perhaps you should stay away from the local bars until after hours. At least then you won't have to impose your drunken stupidity on those around you." He snaps in a louder than normal tone, just short of yelling at the stunned looking drunk.

One of the other passengers, more well-dressed and not sitting too far from the two, sort of half stands with a frown, apparently getting ready to get all indignant, but Sherlock sees the move before the man has time to do any more than open his mouth. "Oh, shut up." He snaps at the man. "Sit back down, I doubt your mistress would be happy if you were late for your rendezvous because you were trying to defend an unemployed drunkard. Something which is clearly out of character for you if your recently dyed hair is any indication." He says rapidly, motioning to the man's hair with one of his sharp yet elegant motions. But at least people move away from him a little, which seems to suit him just fine.

John felt horrible just watching Sherlock tearing into these people, but he also kind of wanted to laugh at Sherlock's sudden explosion. This was a bad sign...he was getting way to used to these outbursts. Bad sign #2, he was surprisingly alright with that. He was unsure what he should do at this point, should he chastise Sherlock like a child? That would get them nowhere and only leave him with another apology on his lips. Should he apologize to the drunkard and the man in the suit...probably not, especially since John felt like Sherlock was in the right there. So instead he stayed silent, putting his hand in his jeans pocket, knowing that Sherlock would probably not welcome a further invasion of his bubble.

After a while had gone by, everyone seemed to relax a bit more, almost letting go of the incident altogether. "Sherlock, why don't we get off at the next stop. We will only be a few blocks from the market and perhaps you would be more comfortable being above ground." He said, gauging Sherlock's reaction.

Even with his outburst, Sherlock is a little fidgety, still dealing with the after effects of using drugs again and that has him more on edge than he usually is. "I prefer cabs. It was your idea to go on the tube." He reminds John a little irritably, and with a childlike petulance. Still, when they get to the next station, it doesn't take Sherlock long to step onto the platform. Most people getting off making way for him, not wanting to incur the wrath of the tall, strange man apparently.

After taking the steps two at a time while of course looking rather casual about it, Sherlock takes a deep breath once they're outside, looking around and seeming to relax as he exhales. The stiff line of his shoulders relaxes a little even as he slips his hands into his jacket pockets. "I never understood why someone would endure that twice a day, every day. Too much stupidity all in one place for my taste." he says with a small frown once he's sure the doctor has caught up with him. For a moment, he tilts his head back, exposing the long, pale line of his neck as he looks up at the sky, squinting slightly against the brighter color, even if clouds are starting to slide across the sky.

God. It was like everything he did was all to tempt him. But John was strong and willed himself to look away from the brunette with as much self control as he could muster. he looked to the ground, staring at his worn shoes, and wondering when they started looking so old. He thought about this for a second before realizing that Sherlock was already on the move.

John jumped into a steady walk, following with an easy rhythm, just watching Sherlock's feet in front of him. He would have loved to look up, to gaze at him, but he knew that if he went down that path, there was no going back. So he kept his head down, frowning at the pavement, was he just being silly? Or did Sherlock really have this kind of hold on him?

Ever so carefully, John dared himself to look up, look up at the man who had become his obsession. But as he did, instead of seeing Sherlock, he saw a large sign that read Tesco's. It was too late for him to appreciate Sherlock's form, because by this point John found himself running in after the man who had left him behind. Again.

"Sherlock, can you wait just a moment? I'm sick of always playing catch up with you and your legs."

Stopping short at John's words, Sherlock glances over at him for a few moments. "Perhaps you should pay better attention, then. Your constant distractions or apparent interest in the ground keeps you from making the necessary adjustments." He explains as he looks at John, glancing around the place curiously.

But now that they're inside, it seems that it needs to be John's turn to take over because the good detective is making no move toward the carts or anything else, merely waiting for the doctor to take the lead. And he starts following once the other man does get a cart, glancing around at everything and trying not to go wandering off even though there's already several things that he wants to look at.

John laughed. "Well if you want me to be less distracted, be less distracting, you bloody berk." With that he smiled and started moving the cart toward the bakery. He grabbed bread, some biscuits that looked alright, and a package of bagels for the hell of it. "Was there anything you wanted besides patches?" He asked as they headed towards the produce section.

John glanced around at the morning crowd, mostly mothers with small children, but also a few older men, and one particularly pretty blonde woman who almost instantly caught his eye. She wasn't overly tall which was always nice considering his own height. She had shoulder length hair and a skirt that was just a little too short and a lot too tight.

Sherlock adds some rolls to the cart when they're in the bakery section before he considers. "Matches." He reminds the doctor as he looks around at everything as they pass it. Of course, he doesn't know what else he might want because it really has been a while since he was out shopping in any sort of manner.

And then there's the blonde girl, who is exactly John's type, and is wearing clothing that would attract any man's attention even if she weren't the doctor's type. It even attracts Sherlock's attention briefly, for the few seconds it takes for him to glance her over. It also doesn't take him long to notice John's interest which makes him frown slightly for a moment.

"Needy." Sherlock states as he glances at John. "Clingy, needy, and she would not be tolerant of our lifestyle. High maintenance I believe would be the term. She would not understand your desire or need to go running around the city with a high functioning sociopath, solving crimes." He frowns a little at the woman. "Two cats, artificial blonde, fake nails, jewelry which is too expensive compared to the rest of her clothing which indicates it was given to her , since it's obviously outside of her price range. She's looking for someone with money and despite being a doctor that is not you." he says as he looks at John for a moment. Jealous? No, well.. maybe a little. And of course he's displaying it in his own unique way,.

John chuckled at Sherlock's deduction, not because it wasn't brilliant, but because he was jealous. He had made Sherlock jealous just by looking at someone else, this was fantastic. He had made the great Sherlock Holmes turn sour over a woman. He felt like he should get a pin or a medal or something. It made him feel almost giddy for a moment. "You know, if you keep frowning, your face will stay like that. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Maybe he should take his own advice, John was grinning like an idiot and he couldn't even stop. People probably thought he was crazy smiling at an apple the way he was, but he didn't care, he was too caught up in the moment to really even notice. "So...how does it feel to be jealous? Something you're not used to, hey." Day of firsts, John thought, still wearing his ridiculous smile.

He threw the bag of apples into the cart, picking up some other fruits before he started browsing through the vegetables. He kinda liked grocery shopping, even if it was a pain to do, it was calming, unless he brought Sherlock of course.

"Shut up." Sherlock says with a small shake of his head, grabbing some cherries and adding them to the cart along with some lemons, thinking of an experiment that he'd need them for. "I am not jealous. Merely trying to save you pain in the future. Though honestly, I wonder how many relationships you believe you could juggle. Unless your comments last night were drunken ravings. Which would perhaps make more sense." He says in a thoughtful tone as he looks around, adding one or two more things to the cart as he sees them, including short matches and long matches.

Of course, they aren't exactly alone in the grocery store, and despite the air that he usually puts off, his looks are not something that only John notices. As they head down one aisle, he attracts the attention of a woman around Sherlock's own age, who is dressed rather comfortably and plainly, pretty in her own right but not dolled up, clearly not there to attract male attention. But the detective certainly attracts her attention and she smiles a little at him, nervous and shy, tucking her hair back a little. "Um, excuse me.. I'm sorry, could you by chance get me that bottle up there?" She asks as she points to something on the top shelf.

John looked over at Sherlock and the back to the woman in front of them. Finally he stretched out, using the bottom shelf as leverage as grabbed her the bottle, that she could have just as easily reached. She looked at them, mostly at Sherlock and then she continued on, knowing there was no chance there.

As the continued on, John watched the steady stream of women who looked at Sherlock, not glanced, but really looked. But he was used to it. He was used to the attention that Sherlock received, especially from women.

"Look Sherlock, I told you I am ending it with Sarah, and I barely even turned my head at that other woman. I'm not trying to juggle anything. I want you, and I've thought it over and over again, I. Want. You." He said, not even pausing. His voice was light, not something out of the ordinary in a grocery store, but his words were sultry.

Of course, oddly enough, Sherlock was about to help the woman when John does it instead and his eyebrows go up as he looks at John for a moment. Unlike the older man, the detective seems oblivious to the attention he's receiving, as he always is, so he just keeps walking, glancing at the shelves as he goes.

With a slightly arched eyebrow, Sherlock watches John for a few moments. "I see." he says before he finds the nicotine patches and looks them over for a few moments before he finds the right brand that he wants, tossing it in the cart with the other things. Finally, he looks at John for a moment, then adds, "I am not entirely myself yet, John. My lapse last night comes with side effects, and I have never been particularly pleasant when coming down from a high." he says as he looks at John, picking a box of something off the shelf to look at it.

John understood that he was in for a long haul, a marathon not a sprint. " I can see that. You came shopping." He said, the corner of his mouth twisting back into his warm smile. "I'm not rushing this. Like I said, I still have to end it with Sarah, I just don't want to hurt her more than I have to. And this.." He said gesturing between them. "I want it to be good. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable or awkward...I just want it to be easy." Soon they were at the check-out, piling their items onto the belt. Their cashier was an older man, probably in his sixties or so, someone neither of them would feel threatened by.

"The ball is in your court, Sherlock. And I will be here waiting for whenever you are ready to throw it back."

He gently pushed his card in, not wanting to upset the machine like last time. He watched as Sherlock (impatiently) waited, tapping his foot on the shiny linoleum. "Give us a second." He said lightly.

"Are you sure you're not going to have another row with the machine?" Sherlock asks with a slight quirk of his lips into a smirk, before he looks around for a few moments. Indeed, he is impatient, and he lets out a little sigh of relief when the card goes through fine. Given the amount of bags, he even picks up a few of them.

Once out to the curb, Sherlock raises his arm and summons a cab. "Well, this was an educational experience." He says as he glances around, waiting for the cab to pull up before he opens the door and slips inside, putting the bags between his feet, giving the address to the cab driver after John is inside.

"Thank you. For coming with me, I mean." To Sherlock, going for groceries one time might not mean much, but for John it meant the world. It was a compromise from a man who always got his way.

John looked out the window, watching London whiz by. "It's just I know it wasn't easy for you." He finished once Sherlock's eyebrow raised once more. John really did care for him, he just wasn't sure how to prove it. He knew he had to leave Sarah but then what? Would avoiding women and little touches be enough? Sherlock definitely wasn't a big gesture sort of man, but he also needed to be shown how much John appreciated him.

So as they sat in silence once more, that's what John thought about, making Sherlock feel as loved as he was...without letting him turn an inch into a mile.

The thoughts of the two could not be any different, since while John is thinking about how to care for Sherlock, the detective is both thinking about a new experiment, and also trying to build his walls back up around cravings he thought he had buried before.

Once back at the flat, Sherlock takes the bags upstairs and deposits them on the counter. Apparently his generosity doesn't extend to putting stuff away. Or maybe he just knows that John has certain places for everything and he doesn't want to mess it up. Either way, he's not going to be putting anything away. So instead Sherlock takes what he needs out of the bags, grabbing some chemicals from the shelf where he stores them before he sits down at the kitchen table and puts on his safety glasses.

"Can you at least wait until the food is safe and out of harm's way?" John asked as he followed in behind. "We don't want an incident like last time..."

He really didn't mind if Sherlock did his experiments in the flat, as long as he cleaned up when he was finished and didn't harm either of them, damage the furniture, or contaminate the food. Was that really so much to ask?

John finished as quick as he could, practically throwing the groceries into the cupboards as Sherlock smiled like a fox in a hen's house. Once he was done, he fled himself, just hoping he wasn't radioactive or anything. He should have been writing his blog, relaying what had happened with Moriarty, what had happened at the pool. But he just couldn't he couldn't sit down and write that...not yet at least.

Maybe he does get a little mad scientist when he has a new experiment, but Sherlock is usually very careful about safety and the accidents are due to unexpected results for the most part. And they are few and far between at that.

Unfortunately with everything that he has going on mentally at the moment, Sherlock is distracted to say the least. Between trying to figure stuff out with John and the new issues of his new withdrawal symptoms, he is not at the top of his game.

A drop or two (he's not counting) too much of one chemical, and there is a substantial explosion in the kitchen. Not enough to break windows or shatter plates, but it's enough that it thrusts Sherlock off his stool and into the counter behind him, and promptly sets fire to the table. For a moment the detective sits there on the floor, a bit stunned and rubbing the back of his head a little as he tries to figure out what's going on, even as the fire spreads toward the other bottles of chemicals on the table.

"Bloody hell." Sherlock mutters in a rare moment of profanity before he gets up, risking burning his hands to grab the more volatile chemicals out of the way and deposit them in the metal sink, trying to make sure things don't get worse.

John rushed in (fire extinguisher in hand), after he heard the explosion. He looked about the room, trying to figure out what happened and where, but there was so much smoke he really couldn't see a thing. John pulls the pin on the small red bottle, spraying the white foam over the table, Sherlock, and the rest of the kitchen. Sherlock hadn't actually caught fire, but he deserved to be sprayed nonetheless. As the air cleared, John sighed, placing his hand on his forehead wanting to blink and the mess be gone, but when he blinked once more, it was still there.

When he finally looked over at Sherlock, the brunette was fully covered, head to toe, in what appeared to be whipped cream. It really wasn't a laughing matter...well, not until Sherlock started wiping his goggles of the foam. Then John couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all (not that this was the first time this had happened).

Sherlock looked far less impressed, with a burn mark on the table and another frown on his face. "I'm sorry, but with the smoke, I thought you were on fire too...and really, when you think about it...I just saved your life." The blonde said, still unable to control his laughter. "Just remember that."

"I was hardly in danger of dying, John." Sherlock points out as he wipes away the foam from his goggles, then goes to the sink to rinse the foam off of his face, before he looks down at his hand, having a slight burn on it but he's not about to point that out and have John fuss over him. "You have rather poor aim. If you'll excuse me, it appears as if I'll be in need of a new set of clothes." He says as he walks as regally as he can - considering he's covered in extinguisher foam - back to his bedroom, closing the door firmly. Of course, this also leaves a mess in the kitchen, but how is that a surprise?

And so goes the day in Baker Street, full of surprises, but also a surprisingly normal routine with Sherlock being slightly ridiculous and John being exasperated and yet amused by it all. And downstairs is Mrs. Hudson, sitting in her chair and listening to the commotion of her beloved boys, smiling to herself in the way a mother would smile over her mischievous boys, which is really how she thinks of her tenants.

* * *

><p><strong>Number four! Poor Sherlock, he really doesn't like idiots. And he is feeling a little territorial over John. He's so confused. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and look forward to the next!<strong>

**Reviews/Comments welcome!**


	5. Chapter 5

John could hear his lonely footsteps on the empty sidewalk, just one after the other. He didn't want to do this, well he did, he just wished she was the one breaking up with him. Then he could just nod and walk out of there, with both of them feeling relieved.

Maybe he was over thinking this. They had both started out thinking it would just be a fling, and that's really what it had been. And she knew she could never compete with Sherlock. Sherlock came first, always. It had been that way ever since they met, and now it just came naturally to him. Sherlock was his priority.

He ran over how he would do it, again and again, playing it in his mind, but nothing seemed right. He hoped that it might be a mutual, let's-still-be-friends kind of deal, but in the end whether or not they both felt the same way, it still had to end. He couldn't lose his chance with Sherlock because of a...technicality.

As he approached her door, he could feel the sweat bead on his forehead and his hands get clammy, but he had to push through. He rang the bell of the smaller town house, hoping she wouldn't answer.

Unfortunately luck is not with John today, and Sarah is home, coming to the door and smiling a little. "John, hi.." She says in a surprised but pleased tone. "Come in, I was just putting on some tea.." She says as she opens the door wider and lets him in before she closes it behind him, smiling and perhaps adding a little unnecessary sway to her hips as she walks.

Once inside, Sarah leads John to the kitchen where she gets down an extra mug and puts a tea bag in each of them, looking over at him with a small smile. "So what brings you by today?"

"Sarah..." John started, unsure of where to go next. "I want to be straight with you." He said as she handed him the warm mug. S44he smiled at him, and it killed him. She was so sweet, and put up with him when she should have given up on him a long time ago. But he couldn't let her smile sway him. He knew what he needed to do, now all that was left was to do it.

"Look, even though we've only been together a short while, it feels like we've been drifting apart. As much as I love spending time with you, it just feels like we aren't going anywhere." He smiled, trying to make a difficult situation a little bit easier. "I really wanted this to work...but it's just not. So I think it would best if we quit while we're ahead. Stop this before any more feelings get in the way." He put his mug down on the counter, leaning his back against the plain kitchen wall, waiting for her reaction.

He had tried to do it gently, and it felt like he had done a pretty good job, but he could tell from her vanishing smile and red face that she felt otherwise.

"Bloody hell." Sarah says as her expression turns from flirty to bordering on angry. "Drifting apart? We haven't been bloody drifting apart, John. You have put basically zero energy into this relationship which I have been hanging onto because I thought you were worth it. Because you're a good man. Apparently your feelings were never in it. We can't be close or go out on a single bloody date without your insane flatmate interfering. And heaven forbid you should tell the man no, you just go running like a bloody dog every time he beckons." She snaps as she glares at John, putting her mug down on the counter with more force than necessary.

Shaking her head for a few moments, Sarah turns away and braces herself on the counter before she turns back to look at John. "If you loved spending time with me so much maybe you would have put some effort into this relationship. You and Sherlock Holmes have a sick relationship, John. It's seriously twisted. I don't know what kind of hold he has on you or what kind of blackmail he's using to keep you there but you need to get out."

Sarah stalks out of the kitchen and into the joining sitting room, straight over to the window to look out, tears forming in her eyes and sliding down her cheeks. "You have some nerve, John Watson. I'd like you to leave now. Clean out your office today, you can find yourself another bloody job, I don't want to see you again." Her voice had gone cold by this time, though it trembles with the force of withheld emotions and the threatening tears.

"You're right. I should have put my foot down, I should have said no to him, at least once in a while, and I should have put more time and energy into us. But I'm not going to leave him, I can't, not by choice at least. So I'll go to the surgery and pick up my stuff tonight." He hoped that knowing she was right (at least in some aspects), would make her feel a little less used. "Goodbye. " He said for the last time as he left, shutting the door gently and continuing on his way.

But really, she had been right about almost everything. If John had planned on making their relationship work he would have had to change how he treated Sherlock, he would have had to put him in his place, and he would have had to treat Sarah better. Maybe he didn't want it to work, not really anyway, not deep down.

He headed first to his office but then decided to go back to the flat instead. He thought about Sarah and Sherlock as he made his way back. Well, mostly Sherlock. If he was going to pursue this, he might have to learn to say no, and stop being such a push over at that.

No matter what John can say however, it doesn't take away the sting of rejection, and once he's gone, Sarah leans against the window to watch him go, a hand covering her mouth to muffle the stuttered, withheld sobs. At least she has the satisfaction of being able to fire him and get him out of her life for good.

When John returns, Sherlock is just putting on his jacket, and he nods a little. "John, good, you're back." He says as he straightens his scarf a little bit. "Molly called, she has some samples for me I've been hoping for. Care to come along? Perhaps we'll get lucky and Lestrade will have something interesting for us while we're there." He offers as he pulls on his gloves and buttons up his coat as he talks. Of course to his mind he doesn't see why John wouldn't come with him, and therefore a part of him assumes that the doctor will.

At the very least the kitchen is cleaned up of the fire extinguisher foam though the table now has an interesting burnishing from the fire. It's apparent that Sherlock has been composing by the slight mess around his music stand, but other than that the flat is in its normal state of disarray.

When there is nothing but silence for a moment, Sherlock finally looks at the shorter man, eyes flickering over him, taking in and deducing everything about him as he normally does. "I see you've dealt with Sarah. It doesn't seem that she started throwing anything, so it went well, then?" He asks as he looks at John. Of course, only Sherlock Holmes would think a breakup went well just because stuff wasn't thrown about.

John laughed darkly as he ran his hand through his short blonde hair. "Uh, not quite. She fired me, Sherlock. She fired me, and yelled at me, and she was still in the right." He said as he pulled of his jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

Sherlock probably wouldn't understand any of this, knowing him he probably thought the firing was a good thing. John knew he hated him having to go to work when there were more important things they could be doing. But John didn't want to just be hanging around the house, slowly turning into his flatmate. He wanted to be out, spending his time doing something worthwhile, working, or volunteering, or anything. Just not lazing about the flat watching bad daytime telly and drinking tea. He was getting restless just thinking about it.

The doctor moved towards his chair as the detective moved towards the door. He would just have to find something else, after all he still had bills to pay. He couldn't afford to just stop working and take time off.

"You're not coming?" Sherlock asks as he sees John hang up his coat, for a brief moment looking like a kicked puppy as he pauses and watches his flatmate move across the floor, trying to figure him out and failing miserably. Every time he thinks he has it figured out, John goes and changes on him and it's extremely frustrating.

Since he's still standing in the relatively warm flat, Sherlock flips his collar down, not having a reason to 'look cool' either, though that was always unconsciously done, no matter what the doctor seemed to think. He is paying a bit more attention to John now though, and he notices in the tone of voice the older man uses that the loss of a job was as important or more important than the actual breakup. "You could always try at St. Bart's. It would be convenient if your job were so close by, as well as the fact that you did train there, by your own confession." He points out as he watches the doctor curiously.

This was his moment, this was his chance to put his foot down, drop the hammer, his opportunity to say no. But looking at Sherlock's wide eyes and sad, broken expression, John questioned his previous decision. No, he had to do it. "No, I don't think I am. Sherlock." He said, taking a deep breath, knowing what was about to happen. "Sarah said something to me...she told me that if I had wanted our relationship to work I would have had to have said no to you, at least occasionally. And it's true, every time you call, I follow. And I think if we want this to work out, the same applies. I can't be your puppy and we can't always be Sherlock and John. Sometimes I have to just be me." That felt good, it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He had to get that out, and better now than never.

"I'm not going to apologize for this, I just hope you can understand." John said as he finally sat down in his chair. Sherlock looked confused, a look that John very rarely saw, if ever, so obviously he was concerned. But he let Sherlock take his time and think it out, while he sat, just watching his face change.

"Very well." Sherlock finally says as he looks at John. He doesn't understand, but at least he's accepting it. He doesn't see the problem with the way that he and John have been for the last few months. In his view, the doctor needs him, and has always enjoyed the adrenaline rush that chasing Sherlock around the city gives him. This sort of came out of nowhere as far as he's concerned. So while the detective may not understand it, he's just accepting it for now until he can process it better. Still, there are experiments to be done and ones that he's quite looking forward to at that.

"I'll be going, then." Sherlock says as he turns and walks out the door, not looking back at the man sitting in his high back chair. The chairs even show the difference in their personalities. John's is older, comfortable, easily blending in. Sherlock's is cold, metal and leather, all sharp lines, and it stands out in the otherwise traditional room.

Once downstairs, Sherlock hails a cab quickly and refuses to look up at the window to Baker Street, merely getting inside and giving the destination. He needs to turn his mind toward his experiment if he doesn't want another accident, and being apart from John in an environment that he is comfortable and safe in will do him good. At least that's what he tells himself.

After Sherlock leaves, John is left alone in the drafty room. It was quiet, too quiet for his liking, so he got up and turned on the radio. It started playing a beautiful classical piece, definitely something Sherlock had left in the player. Normally, John would have just gotten up and changed it to something more his pace, and he moved to do just that before suddenly changing his mind. Even though it was just one violin being played, it was it breathtaking. How had John never heard this? Sherlock was always playing something along these lines, but this was something new, something that John just couldn't bear to turn off.

John sat and listened as the song went on, it had high bits and low bits, fast parts and slow parts. It truly was a masterpiece. Towards the end though, there was a sharp note and some muffled cursing before the CD cut and left only the sound of John's breathing to fill the void. And that's when it hit him. This wasn't Mozart, or Debussy, or some other classical composer - it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock's playing, his recording, and most likely his composing.

John could feel his jaw drop as the realization took over him. He had known Sherlock could play, in fact it was one of the first things he had learned about the mad genius. But this was beyond words, it was shocking. That's when he knew he needed to go to Bart's, he needed to see the face of the man who had created such beauty, put his face to the sound.

The blonde jumped up from his chair and grabbed his jacket once more, throwing it on as he raced down the stairs and onto the street. He just had to see him. He hailed a cab as quickly as he could, practically falling into the back seat. He fired off the address and soon he was on his way, only a few minutes behind the detective.

A few minutes makes a big difference to someone with such long legs, and by the time John gets to Bart's, the detective is already down in 'his' lab, - the one where they first met - after having charmed Molly Hooper once again into allowing him access to a corpse. With everything going on he forgot he had left that CD in the player, but the piece is one that he's been working on basically since he met John, and it's not finished. And not something that he ever had planned on sharing with his doctor, at least at this point. It wasn't ready. The detective is nothing if not a perfectionist afterall. But bits and pieces of it might be something that had been overheard in the flat as Sherlock composed, but never the entirety.

When the good doctor arrives, it would be easy to find Sherlock, especially knowing him as well as he does. When he arrives at the morgue, it starts Molly who jumps a little, and turns toward the door, the expression on her face indicating that she might have been waiting for Sherlock himself. "Oh. John. Hello." She says with a little, nervous laugh. "Um.. if you're looking for Sherlock.. he's upstairs in the lab." She says as she motions upwards with one hand.

And indeed Sherlock is in the lab, the sleeves of his snug dress shirt rolled up nearly to his elbows, fiddling with the knobs on a microscope as he peers into it looking at some sample or another, a few containers of chemicals sitting nearby but not in a place where he will accidentally knock them over.

John sprung into the room, smiling but out of breath. He had ran almost the complete way from the cab including the many flights of stairs as well. John would have said that he was in pretty good shape, for a man his age anyway, but perhaps this proved otherwise.

Sherlock's head flew to the side, glaring at the disruption, only to realize who it was. Before he could speak, John had something he needed to say. "Sherlock, I...I heard the music, and, uh, I need to see you." He rambled, and he caught his breath, leaving Sherlock baffled.

"When you left, I turned on the radio, but you had a CD in there, and God, Sherlock. It's bloody amazing. And I just knew I had to see you. " He said, making himself a little bit clearer.

"I see. You weren't meant to hear that, it's not finished." Sherlock says in a bit of a grumpy tone, both at being interrupted and that the music was heard. "I fail to understand why you felt the need to see me because you heard that recording." He says as he turns back to his microscope, peering into it for a few moments and then giving a frustrated sigh as he removes the slide, which apparently did not contain what he hoped it would.

Sitting back on the stool, Sherlock braces his hands on the counter for a few moments, "I have been composing that piece for quite some time." He says as he glares a little at the microscope, then crosses his arms over his chest as he ponders what next step to take with his experiment.

John chuckled lightly, he should've known that Sherlock wouldn't get it, but that's what he was here for, to explain difficult things to him (which basically meant things with emotions). "It's beautiful Sherlock, and when I realized who was playing..." He was doing this wrong, he needed to be more direct. "Occasionally music can bring out emotions in people, whether it makes them sad, or happy, or whatever. What you wrote, it made me feel like I needed to see you. I can't explain that Sherlock. I just needed to." He said, fumbling over his words.

He was doing the best he could, really. But how could he explain something that he didn't completely understand? He didn't know if Sherlock loved him, or liked him, or just merely put up with him, but he was okay with that, as long as he could know where the detective stood. Because ever since he consider the possibility of the two of them, John couldn't get the brunette out of his head. He couldn't explain what he was feeling, he just wanted Sherlock to be aware, aware that something was changing.

John moved toward the younger man who hadn't move from the stool, still looking at a slide. He wasn't sure what he was planning to do but he was getting closer and closer, closing in the gap between them.

Turning his head a little as the doctor approaches him, Sherlock regards John for a moment. "I started composing that piece after the Study in Pink as you so named it." He admits, sharp eyes remaining on John for few moments before he turns his head and looks back at the microscope. "I've been having difficulties completing it." he admits, then adds, "I recorded it so that I might be able to hear it better."

At least the detective seems to be opening up a little and admitting things to John that he wouldn't ever have before, so he might be realizing just how much John means to him, or at least being more willing to open up a bit more.

John took a few more steps before reaching his destination. He knelt down, so that he was almost (but not quite) eye level, and he wrapped his arms around him, knowing how hard talking it must be for him to open up. He figured that the touch that was surrounding him was probably overwhelming, but John held on even tighter realizing that it was soon coming to an end.

He could feel Sherlock start to pull away, but he didn't let go just yet. He gave a final squeeze, smelling his hair as he did so. He smelled like coffee, dust, and something John couldn't quite place. Coconut? Chamomile? Chalk? Whatever it was, it was lovely. As John unwound his arms, he sighed, sad to feel the loss of Sherlock's warmth.

Yeah, it is a little bizarre for Sherlock, and he stiffens a little at the touch, but he can't exactly go anywhere without hurting John, so he tries to force himself to relax into it, despite how uncomfortable it makes him feel. It does get to be a little too much, so he subtly tries to get away after a little bit, straightening his shirt a little when he is finally released.

That's a little awkward and Sherlock glances at John for a moment, clearly confused and struggling to understand even though he's also trying to retain his composure. "Well, then." He finally says awkwardly as he looks back toward his microscope. "You should clean out your office at the surgery and return to Baker Street. I know how much you value your time and I still have quite a bit to do here." He says after taking a deep breath, recovering himself and looking at John more confidently now.

Sherlock's easy dismissal made John feel about an inch big, but he tried to brush it off. He ran his hand along the cold steel of the work bench as he tried to distract himself. "I guess I will be off." He said, turning toward the door, hoping Sherlock would stop him...but he didn't. So John left without a goodbye, heading out to the chilly weather that awaited him and that was that.

He did go to his office and clear it out, taking his pens, and stapler, and really anything he could deem his. Even though he had only been working there a short time, he was sad to be leaving. He had never been fired anything, though that being said, he had never dated his boss before either.

As John left the surgery for probably the last time, carrying his small box of things, he smiled, because even though he was now unemployed, he was at least one step closer to being with Sherlock. And there would always be other jobs, but there would only ever be one Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, turns out Sarah has some good points, and also can be pretty verbal. Poor Sherlock is still so confused by everything. Thanks for everyone who has been interested in this and following it, glad you like it!<strong>

**Reviews/Comments welcome!**


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